


I Forgot

by Jubalii



Series: Coco DustDevils!AU (Biker AU) [2]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Biker AU, Coco is Actually Very Angry at her Papá, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drabble, Ernesto is being Ernesto, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Forgetful Héctor, Imelda is a Good Motivational Wife, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Tumblr Prompt, with good reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 01:58:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14322024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: based off a Tumblr Ask Meme:#20: "don't tell me that you forgot it"Héctor is more absentminded than usual and Coco pays the price. However, sometimes circumstances have to be taken into consideration, and Imelda realizes that she's not the only one to have a taxing week.





	I Forgot

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: This takes place in the Biker AU universe but doesn’t necessarily fall anywhere specific on the timeline other than the fact that Coco is twelve.

Of all the days for there to be a wreck on the highway!

“Call Héctor.” Imelda drummed her nails on the cracked leather of the steering wheel, silently cursing as she watched everyone in the carpool lane whizz by. _They think they’re so lucky…._ The car filled with the sound of ringing, repetitive and annoying, as her phone synced with the radio. She ran a hand through her hair, wincing at the greasy, tangled feel of her bun. _Answer, damnit! Of all the times—_ _H_ _éctor, I swear if you’ve forgotten your phone in the bedroom **again**_ —

“He-Hello?” His voice, normally cheerful, held a suspiciously nervous edge to it. She ignored it for the moment; she didn’t have time to worry about what stupid mischief he and Ernesto had gotten into now.

“Héctor,” she snapped, all business as the line inched forward slowly. “ _Escúchame_. The insurance cards are in the same drawer as the phonebook; get them out and have them ready for me.”

“T-the what now?”

“The insurance cards!” she repeated hurriedly, scowling even though he couldn’t see her expression through the phone. “Coco and I have our appointment today?” There was a terse silence, and she slammed her hand on the steering wheel in frustration. “Don’t tell me that you forgot it!”

“I’m forgetting a lot of things lately,” he mumbled, barely audible over the sound of a drawer being opened.

“Honestly, Héctor!” She knew she shouldn’t be taking her road rage out on him, but she couldn’t help it. “Why do I even bother putting things on the calendar if you never look at it? I even put them on your phone for you and you _still_ —”

“Sorry! Sorry, I’m really sorry,” he said quickly, and she heard him digging through the drawer. She swallowed a sigh, blowing the air out in a low rush as she resisted the urge to rest her head against the window. _I don’t have time to be responsible for the both of us_ , she wanted to say, but she was already frustrated enough. She didn’t want to get into an argument, when they could just discuss it like adults after she’d had time to calm down.  

“Just make sure Coco is ready by the time I pull up.” She eyeballed her exit, leaning forward in the seat as if her body controlled the traffic. “I want to be in and out in thirty seconds.”

“About that—”

“Make _sure_ she brushes her teeth this time, please? I don’t want a repeat of the last visit.”

“Well, you see—”

“I’m getting off the highway now,” she added, nearly clipping a Durango as she careened into the exit lane. She hit the gas, the van sputtering a protest as it slowly picked up speed. “I’ll be there in less than five minutes. _Be ready_.”

“I—”

“Love-you-bye.” She slid her thumb over the end call, tossing her phone in the passenger seat as she pushed the van to its limits. She didn’t have a lead foot like her brothers, but when time was of the essence she was willing to push the legal speed limit to get where she needed to be. Besides, Dr. Cardozo’s office would charge her if they were over fifteen minutes late; she was _not_ going to waste her hard-earned cash on the dentist, of all people.

The worst part of living in a small town like Santa Cecelia was that when she was in a hurry, everyone else seemed to be moving at half-speed. It took every polite bone in her body not to lay on the horn as she slowed for Doña Lara, her toes tapping an impatient staccato against the brake. She nearly spun out when she started again, wheels throwing up dirt as she sped through the narrow streets and prayed she didn’t have to stop. She _hated_ being late to anything.

She turned onto her street and slammed the brakes, a cloud of dust covering Don Rodríguez’s old jalopy of a truck. The Ford slid neatly to a stop in front of the green gate, and before the engine let out its last dying sputter she was out of her seat and all but running into the house.

“Héctor—”

“Nothing!” Her husband turned on his heel, slapping his phone screen to his thigh with a bright, anxious smile. “H-here are the insurance cards, _mi amor_.” She yanked them out of his hand, shoulder protesting as she twisted her arm to dig in her purse without taking it off of her shoulder.

“Where’s Coco? Is she still brushing her teeth?” In her heart, Imelda knew it was too much to ask a child her daughter’s age to be in as much of a hurry as she was. But she couldn’t stop the rush of irritation from pulsing through her chest as she looked around the kitchen and found it Coco-less.

“Uh, about that.” Héctor gave her his most charismatic smile. Her heart stalled and skipped a beat, but for once it wasn’t affectionate. “Funny story—”

“Héctor.” Now that they were both still, the house seemed very quiet. Almost too quiet… as if he were the only one at home…. “Where is our daughter?” He paled, smile trembling at the corners as he put his phone on the counter behind him.

“Well, you see… the thing about _that_ is….” She didn’t give him the satisfaction of guessing or making assumptions. A strange apprehension was growing in her chest, climbing up the back of her throat and choking her off. He wilted as she continued to glare at him, her eyes demanding answers where her mouth remained shut in a thin line. He nearly crawled onto the counter as he backpedaled, one long leg rising defensively as he hunched down. “She’s… uh… she’s not here.”

“ _Where is she_.” She barely recognized her own growl, feet moving of their own accord as she began to advance. Héctor froze, caught in a mother bear’s line of sight. “You were _supposed_ to bring her straight home from school.” His tongue worked in his cheek, eyes darting about the room. He didn’t admit to anything, but she knew that look too well. Putting two and two together, her heart dropped into her stomach and only the strongest willpower she possessed kept her hands from wrapping around his skinny neck. _“You left her at school?!”_

“And I apologize for that!” he picked up quickly, chewing on his lower lip. She actually _snarled_ and he was immediately scooting along the counter, blindly using his hips as a guide until he hit the edge of the fridge. “I do have a really _, really_ good explanation for this, I promise—”

“You forgot her, Héctor!” The words clashed in her mind, not making sense. How could he? She could understand forgetting to turn off the oven or forgetting to pick up ground beef when he went to the store, but how did a man forget his own child?! It was nearly impossible! Even when her schedule was jam-packed, she never forgot that she was a parent with a small, defenseless twelve-year-old depending on her for safety! “Have you called the school?! Is she still there?! She’s too young to walk all that way on her own!”

“That’s why I asked Ernesto to go get her for me!” he assured her, hands raised. She lunged and he scrambled, putting the kitchen table between them. His socks slid against the tile, hands grabbing at the chairs as he circled it to keep her on the other side.

“How do you forget your own daughter!?”

“You know, that’s _exactly_ what Ernesto said when I asked him,” he laughed, the sound high and frightened. “You see, he called when I was writing and asked if I wanted to go drinking, but I said I couldn’t because I had to get Coco from school, and _he_ said that he had no idea what I was talking about because school let out over an hour ago, and _I_ said—” His harried explanation ended on a scream as he ducked, narrowly avoiding the plastic orange she chunked at him from the bowl on the table. “Imelda, _mi amor_ , please— Ernesto!” He reached out from his new hiding spot, hunkered beneath the table.

Imelda turned, looking over her shoulder to see Ernesto standing in the archway between the kitchen and the living room. He looked unamused at the sight of his friend taking cover, toeing the plastic orange out of his path as he stepped over to the fridge and opened it without a word. Coco followed him, a dark expression of indignant fury written on her round face. Héctor climbed from the relative safety of the table, wringing his hands as he smiled placatingly.

“Coco—Coco?” Coco ignored him completely, walking past his lanky form as though he wasn’t there at all. She threw her book satchel into an empty chair, turning to her mother.

“I’ll be in the van.” She whirled around and stalked back through the archway into the living room; a moment later, the front door slammed shut with a _bang_. Ernesto cracked open one of the twins’ beers, sipping thoughtfully as he pulled his phone from his pocket. The smile slid from Héctor’s face, and he looked lost as he stood alone in the middle of the kitchen.

“You’re _so_ lucky I have an appointment, or I would kill you right now.” Imelda pointed a finger in his face, forcing him to cringe back. “You’re dead when I get back, Héctor Rivera.”

“Imelda….” He wilted, looking more and more like a wounded puppy that she kept on kicking. “I’m sorry, I mean it.”

“We’ll talk when I get back.”

“Imelda—”

“ _When I get back_. And you—get your feet off the table.” Ernesto rolled his eyes, letting his chair slam back down as he obeyed.

“Yeah, you’re _welcome_ for getting your stupid kid,” he called after her. She ignored him as easily as Coco had Héctor, shouldering her handbag as she jogged out the door. “Sheesh,” she heard him mutter, and bit her tongue before anything could slip past. _Give him this one break; you’re late and he **did** go pick up Coco. He actually has more going for him than the man you married, for once. _ 

Coco was already buckled in, her chin digging into the strap of her seatbelt as she slumped in the seat. Her face hadn’t changed, arms crossing sullenly as she stared out the window at a bird hopping along the edge of the roof. Imelda winced, unused to seeing her bright daughter so angry at the world. Coco was becoming a teenager now, of course, but this was an emotion that had clearly had time—over an hour, by Ernesto’s count—to stew.

“Alright, are you ready to go?” She tried to keep her own voice brisk and level as she turned the ignition.

“Mm.” Imelda looked over at her as she pulled back onto the main street, heading in the direction of the highway once more. Most of her anger fell to the backburner; no matter what her own feelings on the situation were, Coco was clearly the one who’d had the worst day.

“Hmm… Papá told me about what happened.”

“It’s whatever.” Coco sat up enough to lean her shoulder against the leather padding of the door, staring out the windshield blankly.

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.” Well, that was that. They drove in silence, out of Santa Cecelia and back onto the highway. Most of the wreck had been cleared, with only a few police cars still hanging around. At least they weren’t headed in that direction, turning instead to the southbound lane and picking up speed as they merged.

“Have you eaten?”

“ _La directora_ gave me an apple while I was waiting.” She waved idly to the driver of an eighteen-wheeler as they passed him. Neither of them went to turn the radio back up.

“Did none of the teachers try to call?” she couldn’t help but ask. _So much for not talking about it._ She felt, rather than saw, Coco’s glare but chose to ignore it. Coco wouldn’t be disobedient and refuse to answer, and besides: as a mother, she had a right to know. Any teacher would surely have realized something was up after the first half-hour.   

“They called Papá’s cellphone, but no one answered.”

As bad as it sounded—and must look to the teachers—knowing Héctor it made perfect sense. He had most likely forgot to program the school’s telephone number into his phone, and if he was in the middle of a songwriting session he wouldn’t have answered any unknown numbers. That would explain why he hadn’t answered the school but did pick up when both she and Ernesto called. She shook her head, mouth pursed as she added ‘fix Héctor’s contacts’ to her mental to-do list.

“Coco.” She was still angry at him, but there was a terrible imbalance in it. They couldn’t _both_ be mad, not at him. She was the one who was supposed to be annoyed by his irresponsible habits, while Coco worshiped the ground her papá walked on. She was talking before she knew it, the words falling from her mouth and ringing of truth.

“I know you’re upset, but you have to understand that your papá, well—he—he didn’t mean it. He made a mistake, and we need to try to forgive him for it.” There was no answer, and so she let herself continue if for nothing more than to fill the silence. “He just forgets things, sometimes; you know how it is when he’s writing music, he—”

“It’s not fair!” Coco fairly screamed it, palms slapping against her skirt. Imelda jerked, nearly veering into the wrong lane as her heart went into overdrive. _Don’t scare me like that_! “I _hate_ his music!”

“W-what?!” That wasn’t true; Coco loved her papá’s songs. Chancing a glance, her eyes widened as she saw her daughter on the verge of tears. “Coco, what’s the matter? I thought you liked music.”

“I do—” She contradicted herself, head hanging. “But… it’s just….”

“What is it?” Imelda prompted.

“It’s just… all the time it’s ‘deadline’ this and ‘deadline’ that! He’s always too busy to play and half the time he isn’t listening to me at all when I’m talking to him! He’s just staring down at that dumb notebook and now he completely forgot about me because he got busy _writing music_!” Her lower lip trembled and she sniffed, wiping her nose on the back of her arm but not really crying. “He loves his stupid music more than he loves me.”

“Coco, that’s not true.”

“Yes, it is!”

“No, it’s _not_.”

“Then how come Tío Nesto had to come get me!?”

Imelda gripped the steering wheel tightly, pressing her lips together as a lump rose in her throat. Her little girl was hurting… _Stupid_ _H_ _éctor, she’s not a baby anymore; you should know that smiles can’t fix this_. What could she say? Imelda knew very well that there was nothing she could do to stop that kind of doubting pain. She’d had it herself, many years ago. The thought that he placed music above family, the fear that she wasn’t enough to make him stay—oh yes, she still remembered.

“Coco.” She breathed slowly, trying to put her thoughts into words that a child could understand. “Your papá loves us both very much. Never doubt that.” Coco sniffed again, wiping her cheek on her shoulder. “In fact, he loves so much that he gave up being a famous musician.”

“What?” Her voice was still watery.

“Yes.” Imelda turned onto the exit, trying to remember whether to turn left or right to reach the dentist’s office. She was already pressed for time; she didn’t need to waste more turning the wrong direction. _Left_ , she decided, looking down the strip to the restaurants and parking lots in the distance. “Yes,” she repeated, picking up her train of thought as she steered the van into the turning lane, “Your papá and Ernesto were going to be big musicians, and play all around the world. They were well on their way, too. But he decided that you and I were more important than being famous.”

“That… that’s dumb.” She wiped her eyes on the hem of her shirt, lip thrust in a pout. “I could have had a famous musician for a papá.”

“If he _had_ become famous, we’d see even less of him,” Imelda pointed out. “We’d be staying home while he toured.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway,” she continued, keeping her eyes peeled for dentist’s office, “that’s why he works from home. He missed us too much to be away all the time. He told me so himself.”

“Oh.”

“Have you even talked to him about any of this?” Imelda asked in a different tone.

“Well… no.” Coco slid back down in the seat, twisting the seatbelt so that it wouldn’t catch her jaw. “I don’t want to make him sad.”

“Don’t you think he’d be sadder if you were angry with him and he didn’t know why?” Coco said nothing, but Imelda knew she was listening. “Trust me: your papá is _not_ a mind reader. Do you know what shortcomings are?”

“Yeah?”

“We have to love our family despite their shortcomings. Well, being scatterbrained is just one of his. That doesn’t mean we should let him get away with _everything_ ,” she added quickly. “But we should still love him and give him a chance to make things right. And he can’t make anything right if he doesn’t know exactly what’s bothering you.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Well, I think you’re old enough to start doing things like an adult. And adults sit down and have discussions. So tomorrow, after you’ve calmed down, you can explain why you were so angry with him and tell him how you really feel. Then, the two of you can talk about how to fix it. That’s what adults do. _Mature_ adults,” she corrected herself grimly.

“Like… he can put an alarm on his phone, to remind him to take a break?” Coco bit her lip, thinking. “That’s what our teacher does when we have study period, so we don’t sit still for too long and get all stiff.”

“I think that’s a great idea.”

“Are—” Coco faltered, uncertain. “He really won’t be mad at me if I say I don’t like him writing music all the time?”

“I’m positive he _won’t_ be mad at you,” Imelda assured her. “In fact, I think he’ll be happy you told him. You can come to either one of us anytime you have a problem. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess, but I _know_.” Imelda spotted the sign and sped up, checking the clock. _One minute to spare; Imelda Rivera sets a new standard for mothers everywhere_! “Now, how many cavities are you going to have this time?”

“None!”

* * *

They came home to Ernesto in front of the tv, his feet on the coffee table and a plate of jalapeno-topped lo mein on his lap. Coco bounced up to him, her mood on the rebound after being declared a perfect patient by both the dentist and his two pretty assistants.

“Tío Nesto! I don’t have any cavities at all! See?” She showed him her teeth, clean and sparkling. Ernesto stared at her, chewing slowly.

“Good for you,” he managed to grunt around his mouthful, flecks of half chewed noodle falling onto his shirt. He scowled, sweeping them onto the carpet before lifting the plate as Coco made a grab for it.

“I want some!”

“Get your own!” She hopped onto the sofa, falling on top of his shoulder as she reached in vain for the plate.

“That _was_ mine, from yesterday!”

Imelda left them arguing, knowing that they’d be at it all evening. Coco would probably manage to wheedle over half the lo mein from him; he’d give it to her just to shut her up. She didn’t mind Ernesto playing the unwilling babysitter, especially since he often set himself up for it. Héctor claimed that Ernesto liked Coco more than he would ever admit, though Imelda had a small doubt in the back of her mind. Sure, he wouldn’t _hurt_ her or anything, but he was a bad influence and if Coco started to act like him….

She put her handbag on its hook beneath the telephone, placed the receipt from the dentist in her “bill tray” on top of the microwave, and went down the hall to change out of her suit. Her brothers’ door was shut, a sign that they were home and busy with something in their room; she heard the radio and what sounded like a drill, but they were keeping quiet enough that she didn’t feel like bothering them.

Héctor was lying facedown on the bed, his feet hanging off one end and his nose buried in his pillow. She stopped in the door, watching to see if he were asleep; he wormed his arm beneath his forehead a moment later, letting out a sigh. Rolling her eyes, she shut the door behind her and stepped out of her heels, placing them next to his shoes beside the door.

“What’s the matter with _you_?” she asked lightly, shrugging out of her purple jacket before hanging it neatly in the closet. She made sure the shoulder pads were settled properly before putting it away, taking an extra moment to fix one of his shirts that was barely clinging to its hanger.

“My daughter hates me,” was the muffled reply. She shut the closet door, hands on her hips as she frowned at his prone form. All her ire had been replaced by her usual mild frustration, and Coco was feeling better; her world was in balance again. Taking pity on him, she climbed on the bed next to him and reached over to turn on the lamp.

“She does not.”

“She does. I don’t blame her, either. I’m a pretty sorry excuse for a papá.” Shaking her head at his dramatics, she looped one leg over his bony waist and settled against him, her stomach against his spine and her chin digging into his shoulder.

“You are not,” she mumbled in his ear. “You’re a good papá. You’re just really, really dumb sometimes.” She worked her arms under his, palms flat against his chest as she embraced him. He turned his head, cheek sinking into the pillow as he looked at her over his shoulder.

“Really?”

“Really.” She nuzzled into the dip between his shoulder blades. “And Coco is fine. She’s just frustrated because she thinks you’ve been paying more attention to music lately than you have her.”

“What?” He tried to rise onto his elbows, sinking back down when she whined in protest. “I—well, I mean I _have_ been taking on more work lately, but that’s just because we’ve got every birthday in the family coming up and I wanted to make sure we were prepared.”

“Not every birthday?”

“Your and Coco and the boys. That’s the majority.”  

“We’d have enough. We always do.” She tightened her arms around his middle, feeling his ribs through the thin shirt. He was warm, but so bony… bonier than normal…. She tried to remember the last time he’d eaten more than a few hurried bites, taking his drink with him as he kept his eyes glued to his work.

“Having enough is fine. Having _more_ than enough is better.”

“That’s why you’re a good papá,” she insisted, running her hand up his neck and into his hair. She twisted the thick strands around her fingers, feeling the weight of them as the tangles pulled back. When was the last time he brushed that mop? She sat up and slid off of him, grabbing his arm and tugging so that he’d flip onto his back. He obeyed, legs flopping against the mattress, and she climbed back on him to rest her cheek over his heart. He wrapped his arms around her languidly, looking down with his chin pressed against his neck.

“Does this mean I’m not dead?” he asked, hands finding the small of her back. She hummed musingly, pressing her hand beneath his shirt and tracing the soft line of hair running up towards his chest. She lifted just enough to keep the hem from catching between their stomachs, his leg sliding between hers as he twisted just enough that they lay tangled, side by side.

“Don’t press your luck,” she warned, teasing as she scooted up enough to share his pillow. He drew her closer, his cheek rubbing against her hair. “This had better not happen again.”

“No, never,” he promised, one hand walking its way up her back to tug at the pins holding her bun together. She kissed the column of his throat lazily, smugly satisfied at the faint imprints of lipstick she left behind. “’Melda,” he sighed, her name tickling her lips as she kissed down to his collarbone. She drew back, cupping his jaw and guiding him down so that she could take a good look at him.

Now that they were close she could see the dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion mixing with love and desire. He’d been working himself to death, and with her busy preparations for the upcoming entrepreneur’s convention she’d forgotten to spare him a passing thought. Her heart ached at the thought; their jobs were so diverse that she often forgot he worked just as hard as she did for his family. All the nights he stayed up long after she went to bed, bent over his work to finish in time….

“You’ve been neglecting yourself, _mi amor_.” She rubbed her thumb over the most prominent bags, soothing the discolored skin. He leaned into the touch, smiling. “And I’ve been neglecting you.”

“No,” he murmured, kissing her palm. “You’ve been busy.”

“So have you.” She pressed her forehead to his. “When’s the last time you had a full night’s sleep?”

“Too long.”

“You’ll have one tonight.”

“If my love insists.” She leaned back, frowning sternly. 

“I do. We _both_ will go to bed early.” He nodded, saying nothing as he bent to brush his lips against hers. He pulled away teasingly when she tried to deepen the kiss, a mischievous glint cutting through the weariness in his eyes.

“We’ll go to bed early,” he agreed softly, breath wafting across her lips. “But will we sleep?”

“Héctor...” She kissed the underside of his jaw, grinning against his skin. “You tell me, _músico_ : are you up to it?”

“With you?” He yanked her back up to eye level, his hands skirting the skin just beneath her blouse. “Always.”

“Well—”

“ _Mamá_!” They both froze, muffling groans as Coco’s shrill yelp cut through the mood. “Tío Nesto spilled my lo mein!”

“I did not! She’s the one who—”

“I’ll take care of it.” Héctor groaned as he lifted himself off the bed, spine cracking. He leaned back long enough to kiss her forehead. “Wait here.”

“Don’t take too long,” she purred, sliding her stockinged foot up his leg as he pulled away. He grinned, winking as he backed off the bed and turned to go survey what potential mess awaited him in the living room. She huffed when the door shut, unpinning her hair and running her fingers through it before sprawling on his side of the bed. _He really is an absentminded doofus… but then again, I wouldn’t have it any other way._

“Papá, what’s all over your neck?”


End file.
